dmseay

Have you ever really looked at the moon on nights when it’s full? Looked and wondered? Or, seen a star go flying by? A shooting star, maybe a satellite mistakened for a star. There’s so much junk up there it’s hard to tell the difference.

But, a moon. A silver filled circle in the black sky. That’s authentic, something you can reach out and grab. Touch it with your pinky.

He used to follow the moon. Started in California where he caught it one night outside of a bar in Oxnard. Told the woman on the back of his bike he was going to catch it. The dark haired beauty said, sure. Just take me home first.

You don’t want to catch the moon?

Too tired. Let’s catch it tomorrow night, she straddled his old Indian.

Can’t do it babe. Gotta start tonight, she got off his bike and flagged a pickup down. It was time for him to start.

The piece of silver was right in front of him as he headed east out of the state. It was three o’clock in the morning and he could hear the coyotes howling, desert brush rolled by as he traveled on. He began to wonder just how he was going to catch the moon. He’d have to ride at night and sleep during the day. Sure, the moon was out during the day, but, it was hidden in the hazy sky; protected by sunlight.

It was seven in the morning when he pulled over into a Nevada rest area for some sleep. He pulled a Mexican blanket out of his bag and made a nice bed for himself under a shady tree. Immediately he began to dream. Dreamt about the moon fitting in his back pocket along with his chained wallet. Kept it there. Let it out at night time for all to see. And, it was always full.

Not too long into his slumber, he was awakened by a fat man decked out in leather. Pointed a shotgun right at his nose. Said, reach behind ya and give me your wallet, sweat dripped on the trigger.

I don’t have any money man, the moon follower said. I got an empty pouch and the moon back there in my pocket. That’s it.

You say you got the moon? Whole, half, or a sliver?

The whole thing man. But, I can’t give it to you. You have to earn it.

Oh yeah.

Yeah….

It was ’round noon when the State Police showed up. His body was rolled over on his belly. Four bullet holes in the back and one in his head as the Sun looked down.

His wallet and the moon were gone.

He bought a suit. His wardrobe was needing one. It was a bright yellow material. Got a blue tie to go along with it.

In all his years he’d never owned a suit. He had jeans and corduroy, but never a brand spanking new suit. Never could afford one. And, when he was a little kid his parents couldn’t afford him one either; a few generations of poverty ran in the family. They never saved for anything, ’cause they couldn’t. Always paying bills,or, for meals.

There were seven kids in that family; four boys and three girls. Most of em had left Allen County right after high school. Just like the rest of the senior classes. But, not him. He got a job at the carwash and kept it. Had a trailer he rented out on Spring Street. All the other family members got jobs in factories, a sister or two became hair stylists, and one brother was a real successful tire salesman. He just kept washing cars, SUV’s, pickup trucks; made em look shiny and new.

One night his phone rang. It was his oldest brother telling him that their daddy had died. Telling him that he was going to be one of the pallbearers. He told his brother he’d be honored.

So, that night he broke into his shoe box under his bed and fetched $30. This was money for his electric bill that month. He figured he’d go without. He walked down to the Salvation Army where he saw it in the window; a yellow suit. He hoped it would fit.

The pants were a little high and the jacket a little tight, but he could get into it. It was on sale for $27. He bought it. Took it home and looked at himself in the mirror. Hair greased back, moustache trimmed a little, neck shaved, he was real proud. Real proud.

He went to the nursing home that morning to see his mom. As usual she couldn’t remember who he was. He was just some funny looking man in a yellow suit. She laughed at his jokes. Took his box of candy he’d given her. But couldn’t for the life of her remember who he was.

And, he gave her a kiss on the forehead and said goodbye. The same way he’d say goodbye to his daddy that afternoon.

The yellow suit hung in his closet.

He called in the evening time, sun was still out, just going down behind the hills to the west. Hadn’t talked to her in so long, years. Didn’t quite know what to say. It wasn’t as if he missed her, but, there was something that pulled on his sleeve.

First he got her answering machine, Hello, this is Sherry. Leave your name and number, he hung up quickly. Told himself it just wasn’t meant to be. Poured some bourbon in a glass and polished it off. Then he had another bourbon, and another after that. The moon was shining silver in the pitch black sky. It was well after midnight. The lights in the house were off, only the glare from the television shown. Kept watching old shows, reruns of cop shows and movies of the week. Hoping he could get a glimpse of her. She must’ve done eight or nine movies and shows on television back then. They’d always give her a line or two. He was real proud. His woman was an actress. Was real quick to tell anybody. He’d rather say what she did than what he did; working in a factory all day outside of Pomona. She was doing something with her life, he thought back then. She was doing something.

The old man was never sure why she took off. Some said she moved in with some producer, or, acting coach. Others told him it was bound to happen. Said she was too restless. He could never figure it out. Just came home one day and her stuff was gone. Pictures, clothes, high heel shoes, rings and jewelry he’d bought for her. It was all gone. And, so was she.

So, he decided after midnight he’d give her another call. More bourbon had been drunk and his courage was high. The phone rang several times and eventually a man picked up.

Hello, said a groggy voice.

Hello. Could I speak to Sherry please?

Who is this?

It’s Donny.

Donny?

Yeah. I used to be her old man years ago. I just wanted to see what she was up to.

How’d you get this number?

A friend gave it to me. Said she’d ran into Sherry over at some bar in Tarzana one night. Said she looked like she had taken care of herself. That’s what she said.

Donny. Don’t call here ever again. You hear me. Now goodnight.

The phone was hung up violently. Hurt the old man’s ear. He wondered if she was next to him when he called, or, was she out somewhere. She liked to go out. Carried black and white head shots of herself in her purse. Would give them out to total strangers as if she was Jane Fonda or someone famous. She always wanted to be famous.

He turned off the television and sat in total darkness. Stirred an ice cube with his finger. Had to work the next day. Wondered if she had to. Wondered if she was taken care of. Wondered, wondered, wondered. Goodnight Sherry.

If you’re walking on 40 towards Oklahoma, a lot goes on in your mind. Semis going past you, cars with families heading to San Diego, or maybe Vegas, Dallas, or a vacation at the Grand Canyon, whiz by; a kid in the back seat waves.

And then there’s these old pickup trucks hauling Mexicans off to ranches, farm hands sitting in an old rusted back end of a Dodge Ram, or Ford 150. Men throwing brown sacks out off the sides of the highway; remember that commercial where the Indian chief would cry? Litter everywhere. Pop cans and cigarette butts dot the hills leading off into the flat lands. Deer run and bobcats chase after cardboard boxes that held Big Macs, Quarter Pounders, Chicken Mcnuggets. Maybe a little left; a scraping of grease.

In the distance there are guns being fired at antelope, bucks, some trying to kill a coyote as the sun goes down and the blackness covers the earth. And it’s just you out there walking. The mind wanders. Thinking ’bout a family you left behind. The last good meal you had. What do clean clothes feel like? You’re just hoping. Hoping a ride comes along soon.

The imprint of night left a dull look on his face. No longer was he excited by the stars, moon, gray clouds moving in, the blackness of the sky. And, he was no longer enthused by the beauty of day light; this golden sun meant nothing to him. Often he’d look up at it and wish it to go away, disappear, leaving a blank slate in space, perhaps stone, or a giant chalkboard. Something to write ,or, color on. Maybe drawing pictures of how life was long ago before he lost interest in it.

And now he would fill his days with drink. Occasionally he’d have a meal or two during the week, but, for the most part it was a steady diet of cheap beer and gin; little bottles he purchased at the liquor store with his dimes and quarters, pennies, folded up dollar bills. This was his decision. A decision made long ago.

He’d stand on the sidewalk wearing shit-stained pants, a coat that barely fit, and a wool cap atop his wrinkled ruddy face. The old man would ask passersby for change, a couple of bucks, Christians felt bad for telling him no while others scoffed at him, telling him to get a job, change his pants, take a bath. He would say, God bless you, then move aside for the living to walk past.

But, once a month was his lucky day. The eagle flew on that day, a check mailed to a Psychologist with his name on it would appear. It was his Social Security check for $783.00. He kept a paper calendar in his front pocket with days marked off, knowing exactly when he could cash it and where.

So, on this day he first bought a brand new pair of pants and underwear along with a new shirt. Then the short fellow would go to the mission in town where he would shower. They’d ask him, How’s your relationship with Christ?, he assured them it was fine. He promised the ministers that this month would be different. He’d find a job, bath, a place to live, he would even stop drinking. But, this was not to be.

One good meal and a cocktail won’t hurt, he said to himself as he sat at the bar drinking a gin and tonic. He squeezed the lime into his mouth and laughed. Didn’t see the harm in another.

The clock on the wall said 3:00. It was closing time. His money was dwindling. He then went to the fanciest hotel in town where he stayed two nights and enjoyed room service and more drinks; kegs were bought and he drank them.

Then, it struck him as he looked down at his last few dollars. Things would soon be back to normal. And, the countdown continued.

The men sat in the backyard on stools, folding chairs, quarter cut tree trunks; stood ’round the barbeque grill, smelled that charcoal turning gray. Talked a little, mostly just sucked on Budweiser bottles. Opening em up one after another.

Women folk stayed inside out of the Sun, peeling potatoes, chopping slaw, making sauce for the ribs; drinking iced teas with lemon and sugar in em.

It was a typical Sunday after service day in Mississippi, families gathered, boys played football in the nearby lot, young ladies talked of one day bein’ his, all his. Hound dog drank from his water bowl.

J.T. brought up a notion ’bout the sermon that mornin’. Preacher talked on the subject of grace, God’s grace. Said you couldn’t get into heaven on good works like them Catholics do. Memorizin’ all those prayers, burnin’ candles, either Jesus died on that cross for our sins or it was just a waste of time, J.T. said.

The good ol boys were astounded by this statement of his. Pete Thompson nearly had a heart attack. You mean to tell me that the crucifixion was a waste of time?, Mr. Thompson said. J.T. assured him that was not the case. Well then, Pete said. What exactly are you sayin’?

J.T. opened up another beer. It’s his grace. He did all the work. Why I can have another Bud ’cause I’m washed in the blood.

So I can go ’round and be a complete A hole and that’s o.k. with Christ?

If you’re baptized yes.

Well hell. I’ll be, Pete said as the others shook their heads. Guess I better get on that.

Inside Bobby Sue continued pealing potatoes. Said, those boys get awful riled up on Saturday nights now don’t they? The women folk just smiled. J.T. wants to love me two or three times in one night, Bobby Sue said. He’ll sleep awhile then I feel him pokin’ me in the side with that thing of his, they all laughed. Ain’t like when we was dating. Men don’t know what to do when they’re young. Maybe they still don’t.

Henrietta began to cry a little. Said her man hadn’t touched her in years. Wondered what was wrong with her. She’d put on a little weight after the baby and never took it off.

It’s me, she said. I know it’s my fault. ‘ Least It feels that way. Bobby Sue walked over and gave Henrietta a nice hug. They looked out the window at the men.

Sounds to me like he’s forgotten how, they all laughed. Bobby Sue rang the dinner bell. Sunday lunch was served.

The old man couldn’t sleep last night. He didn’t even know how long it’d been. Up so late, staring out at the one street light. Christmas colors on some of the houses, but, mostly pitch black in the skies, moon was covered by a haze, stars weren’t out. Just a darkness, a weariness ’bout the night. The sounds of the road, semis cruising at top speeds out on 41, teens out late on a Saturday night, the cop waiting to catch em.

He had forgotten how she liked this hour of the morning. She used to wake up naturally ’round 3:30 and put on a pot of coffee. He wondered if she still did that. Wondered a lot of things ’bout her. It’d been years since he’d seen her. Last time they’d talked was when he was up in Vermont with a broken down Dodge. Needed money for a mechanic, and a little to live off of. Just a bit so that he could eat for a couple of days. He’d gone awhile without a bite.

So, she bailed him out. Told him this was the last time. He said he promised to pay it back to her; broken promises. Just like the vows he took. Broke those too. Mistakes were made though he had good intentions. Thinking one day he’d land on his feet. Whatever that meant.

Hello, he said out loud. What’s become of us?, the old man whispered. Maybe she’d remarried. Maybe she was living in a lighthouse up in Maine. Said she always wanted that.

And he, living in a weekly motel. Spent his days and nights talking to himself ’bout old times. Living on coffee and cream. His paunch had become just a pot belly. An empty pot belly.

He didn’t dare look her up. Didn’t care ’bout pictures, promotions, anything. Stopped cursing her and wished her nothing but the best. Maybe that’s what all old men did. Maybe.

Under his nightstand he had an album of colored photos from their trip to Paris. Old pictures from when they were in their thirties. He never looked at it, but he wouldn’t throw it away either. It just sat there collecting dust. Just like the old man.

The crows stayed North for the winter this year. In the past they’d fly down South like retirees; Arkansas, Texas, Mississippi, warm places. Tells me there’s a change in the air. The climate is changing. Soon North’ll be South and life will change too.

He used to watch em out on the telephone wires from his window in the kitchen. They sat there. Crowing. Making noises.

He’d scrounge ’round week old bread and throw it on the ground. Different types, rye, wheat, some white used for tuna fish sandwiches. The crows would eat it up. Swooping down to the ground for their Thanksgiving feast. He’d laugh as he looked at em. Glad he could give something to nature.

Birds. He never really studied em that much. Not like his wife did; using binoculars to catch their every move. She’s the one that got him interested in birds after she died. Before that he never really paid attention.

She’d come home from the library with these books on birds; finches, woodpeckers, plain old pigeons. She read up on em in the evening time while he watched the evening news. She used to sit there on the plastic covered couch and read ’bout em til it was time for bed. He’d be snoring away. The older woman would wake him to let him know it was time. Always kissed him on the forehead goodnight. His eyes were shut.

The old man never noticed the little things. Like the fact she was losing weight, becoming frail, more tired. He thought it was just her getting older. They were both getting older. And, one day she told him. Said there was something wrong with her. She said she didn’t wanna go to the doctor. Said she knew it was time for her to migrate. And in a short time she did. Her last breath was ’round this time last year. He held her in his arms.

So, he took up bird watching. Reminded him of her. Things she used to do. Things he didn’t pay attention to. Maybe it was guilt.

The crows stayed North this winter.

What’d happened to him over the years, no one could really tell. He’d gone from being a relatively happy fellow to being down in the dregs. Which some say is the best part of a wine. Others would disagree.

Time flew by. He found himself alone in his closing years. Living in a room filled with books, words, a typewriter, an old wooden desk. Dust atop of bed posts, night stands, lampshades, shelves, a cleaning was needed.

And his own soul needed cleaning. Apologies needed to be made. People in his past he’d let down. Loans never paid back. Broken hearts along the way. He prayed for forgiveness everyday; confessed his sins on paper. Wrote stories ’bout less than savory types. The kind that run off; never stick it out. He never stuck it out.

Had a time when he was younger. A real night hawk. Drinkin’ and carousing until four in the morning. Waiting for waitresses to clock out. Driving ’round the country jazzed on some kind of manic mania; up and down interstates. Calling out for one more round, one more song, a lost tooth from a fight in Yonkers; should’ve seen the other guy.

Now youth was gone. Bed time was 8:30, a cup of coco from an unwashed mug, pillow case with saliva marks on it, sleeping on his side’s, scared to look up at heaven.

How does one know if they’re forgiven? Forgiven by those they sinned against. This is what haunted him. Debts he couldn’t pay back. Perhaps poverty was the price he paid.

Goodnight, he’d say out loud. Goodnight, as if she were there. She, one of many. But now those days are over. Aren’t they? Maybe we all live in the Tropic Of Cancer.

Winter came early.

Snow, rain, slush on sidewalks, your hand not there.

And, it darkened early.

Only the moon gave guidance. Oh North star, where are you?

Lifeless grass yellows.

Autumn has gone. You have left. My shadow haunts me.

I’ve yet to see your face.

We played as children. Rubbing noses. Eskimo kisses.

Love leaves us lost.